A locked room, a dead body and Sherlock Holmes
by nothingisbutwhatisnot
Summary: When Charles Taylor is found dead on his living room floor Sherlock Holmes can't resist investigating it. Together, he and his trusted friend Dr John Watson must solve the case before time runs out. Sorry my summary isn't very good but please read and review xx
1. Chapter 1

As I look back on the many cases that my dear friend Sherlock Holmes and I have undertaken I cannot help but smile at the many strange, extraordinary and potentially fatal predicaments we found ourselves in one way or another. I remember all the escapades that we encountered throughout the years as if they happened yesterday and cannot help but smile fondly at the adventures I had when I was a younger man. One case in particular reminds me of the bizarre cases that together, Holmes and I solved.

The luminescent orange sunrise filtered through the net curtains, bathing Sherlock's office and laboratory in a dazzling golden light. As I marvelled at the beautiful spectacle I noticed Holmes sprawled on the sofa, completely oblivious to the exquisite scene that surrounded him. I assumed he was asleep but I couldn't be certain of that fact due to the dishevelled, tattered bowler hat he wore covered his eyes, leaving only his mouth and chin visible. A sly smile played upon his lips and his chin was sparsely dotted with unshaven bristles. I threw the curtains open and was startled by the bright sunlight that made my eyes water, forcing me to look away.

"Good morning Holmes." I greeted in a chipper voice. Sherlock didn't even seem to acknowledge that I had spoken.

I coughed loudly to attempt to wake him but somehow he still didn't stir.

"Holmes?" I asked cautiously as I approached him to nudge him awake. I shook him gently so I was certain he was conscious. Sherlock was never a deep sleeper. I sat down beside him before laying a hand on his shoulder to convey my concern for my often reclusive companion.

"Sherlock you have to get out of this house." I ordered him sternly. He didn't reply but I continued despite his disinterest, "This hermitic behaviour cannot continue. You must get a new case. Can't you see you're getting ill being cooped up in here?"

"I see no logical reason for leaving my lodgings today. I have neither the reason, nor the inclination to do so." Sherlock replied stubbornly as he bounded unexpectedly from within the wardrobe behind me.

I leapt to my feet in fright and glanced between Sherlock standing fully dressed having just emerged from the oak wardrobe and the shabbily dressed figure on the sofa. Sherlock noticed my surprise,

"I picked him up from the morgue yesterday," he informed me gesturing casually to the limp body I had mistaken for him only moments before.

"You mean he..." I started before being interrupted by Holmes.

"Yes. He is indeed deceased."

He seemed so calm about it all. I felt my face getting warmer as my anger grew.

"Sherlock! I deserve some kind of explanation as well as an apology!"

"Whatever for? Was he not sufficient company?" Holmes joked.

"Better company than some," I muttered under my breath. Sherlock was my closest friend but sometimes he was so ignorant of the simplest things.

Mrs Hudson knocked quietly on the door.

"Come on in Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock called. I watched as he fell into a nearby armchair and picked up his violin.

"Good morning Dr Watson. Morning Mr Holmes," she greeted smiling cheerfully at us both.

"A good morning it is not I'm afraid Mrs Hudson!" Holmes spat as she placed the tea tray on the coffee table in front of us.

"What in heaven's name could possibly be the matter now?"

"It could be any number of things." I sighed whilst pinching the bridge of my nose exasperatedly.

"Thank you for your concern," Sherlock interjected sarcastically.

"Please Sherlock just tell us what's wrong."

"Everything is too peaceful, too tranquil. Nothing of interest has happened for months!" he moaned.

"Surely there must be a case that you're interested in?"

The pile of letters addressed to him from clients was beside me. I picked them up and quickly flipped through them.

"How about this one? A lady named Mrs Laurence has been the victim of burglary. She claims that her diamond earrings were stolen from her bedside while she was away. Interested?" I inquired hopefully.

"It was her maid," Sherlock informed me as he read the morning newspaper.

"How could you possibly know that?" I demanded sceptically.

"Well if she has diamonds she must be upper class to afford them. The letter was post marked Pinner. As you know many upper class women in the Pinner area are married to a banker due to its proximity to the Bank of England. Bankers often go on holiday to the countryside during the summer months. Whilst in their summer home a light fingered servant of theirs stole the earrings using their key to open the front door. Tell her that the earrings are long gone. Probably sold already.

See? It's simply a matter of connecting the facts together to see the bigger picture."

"Like a jigsaw?" Mrs Hudson questioned curiously.

"A crude comparison, but if it helps you to understand, yes Mrs Hudson like a jigsaw.

Speaking of jigsaws hadn't you be getting back to yours?"

Sherlock waved a hand at the door rudely demanding to be left alone. She did as she was ordered either not noticing or choosing to ignore Sherlock. Mr Hudson, although elderly and fragile looking, was extremely strong willed as any woman would have to be to tolerate Sherlock.

"Maybe this one would interest you more. A vicar by the name of Father James Malloy has had all the stain glass windows in his church smashed."

"No! No! No!" Sherlock disagreed before rising to his feat and beginning to pace the room in agitation. Another muffled knock could be heard from behind the door. Mrs Hudson's head poked round the door.

"You have a visitor Mr Holmes," she informed us.

"Then inform them that we shall be downstairs in a moment," ordered Sherlock. She nodded a little and disappeared.

"Perhaps this is the case that will interest you," I suggested hopefully.

"We shall see," he nodded slowly.

**A/N: Please review as I am not sure if I will continue this story. Thanks for reading xx**


	2. Chapter 2

I followed him downstairs and into the living room where a petit woman clad entirely in black sat. She looked about forty and her hands were clasped firmly in her lap. She was sat bolt upright, however her head was bent so she was staring down at her hands as she toyed nervously with the lace on her sleeve. She glanced up when the door creaked open and hastily rose to her feet.  
"Mr Holmes!" she exclaimed holding out her hand for him to shake. He shook her hand quickly and brushed past her to take his customary place leaning against the mantelpiece.  
"This is my companion, Dr Watson. You may speak as freely to him as you do with me." Sherlock informed her. I took her hand and shook it as Sherlock had before me.  
"What brings you to my home?" he asked.  
"My name's Mrs Taylor. Unfortunately I come here concerning the death of someone close to me."  
"Your recently deceased husband if I'm not mistaken."  
"How could you know?" she gasped in shock.  
"I take it I am correct?"  
"Of course, but how did you guess?"  
"My dear lady, I don't guess. I know."  
"But how on earth could you know?"  
"Simple. I observed a small tan line on your third finger on your left hand. It had to be a ring that was recently removed after being on your finger constantly for at least a year. I did think you might be having an affair with another man and took your ring off to make it look like you were unmarried but the tan line wouldn't be as distinct. Of course your clothing revealed you were in mourning before you informed us." He shrugged nonchalantly.  
"Remarkable!" she breathed, awestruck.  
"Please continue with your tale."  
"I was not born into a fortunate or wealthy family. All my ancestors were simple farming folk in Devon. But there wasn't much work for a young farm girl in my small village. I was forced to move here to London when I was 18. I quickly got a job as a governess in an extremely rich house hold. I looked after their three boys till they had grown and I was no longer needed. I was dismissed by the master of the household and left homeless. It was while I was searching for a job that I first met Charles. I suppose it was love at first sight when a mutual friend of ours introduced us both. We were married within a year of meeting and bought a cottage in the North of Hampshire. Charles had grown tired of the busy city and I longed for a family home where we could raise our children. We longed for a real family but unfortunately I found out could not have children. My heart was broken and I become depressive and barely spoke or ate. I wept for days on end and sometimes I grew almost suicidal. Charles of course was terrified for my safety as well as the pain he felt after being told our family, that we had dreamt of, could never become real. It took years for me to accept the news and finally start living my life again. Once I had recovered, Charles confessed his longing to travel. I hoped it would make me forget my upsetting past. We travelled around the world. I saw things I could not have imagined in my wildest fantasies. We trekked through Indian jungles on the back of elephants; we saw waterfalls cascade down rock faces and we got showered in flowers by friendly Indian women as we arrived off the boat. I was in love with the life I had found with the man of my dreams. It had to end though. Eventually, our money ran out and we were forced to return to our tiny cottage in North Hampshire. However, neither of us were happy to be back. Slowly we drifted apart. Charles began to drink more and more and I hardly saw him. Days would go by when we hardly exchanged a word. Last Thursday he went out to the pub as usual and didn't return till midnight. This wasn't unusual, so I didn't bother to investigate when I heard him stumble into the living room. I had just fallen asleep when I again heard my husband downstairs. He was coughing loudly and started crashing, uncontrollably around the room. I rushed into the living room but I was too late. My husband was lying dead on the floor with a glass of brandy in his hand."  
At this point Mrs Taylor started weeping and grabbed a handkerchief from her pocket. I glanced over at Sherlock and saw his eyes were firmly shut in thought.  
"Please Mr Holmes, I must know how my dear Charles passed away. The police are convinced it was alcohol poisoning and so refuse to investigate further. I know he was murdered Mr Holmes by someone most sinister but no one believes me, saying that I am delusional."  
"I assume you were in your husbands will?" Sherlock inquired.  
"Yes."  
"I will take your case Mrs Taylor."  
"Thank you! Oh thank you Mr Holmes!" she exclaimed, leaping to her feet.  
"Watson and I will travel to Hampshire on Monday as I have business to attend to."  
"Of course Mr Holmes, I cannot thank you enough. I should go. I was going to meet a friend of mine for tea." she announced. "Good day Mr Holmes." She turned on her heels and left quickly.  
"I admit that this case has left me stumped. Any ideas about cause of his death Holmes?" I asked, curiously.  
"The very idea that I could've failed to deduce anything from her tale is laughable my dear Watson."  
"My most sincere apologies. Care to enlighten me?"  
"Well for starters I believe this matter is far more serious than our client believes."  
"How so?"  
"I have no doubt that Mrs Taylor is in grave danger."  
"Dear me! Hadn't we better inform the lady?" I suggested, a little shocked at his words.  
"If I am correct in my deductions she will be perfectly safe."  
"And if you are incorrect?"  
"Impossible. I am never wrong. Now, I believe you have some train tickets to purchase."

**A/N Thanks for reading this if you have read this you're great :D xx Review if you want xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

And so early Monday morning, I found myself sat in the corner of a first class carriage opposite Sherlock aboard a train destined for Hampshire.  
Once we arrived at the station Holmes quickly summoned a handsome carriage and in no time at all we found ourselves at the small cottage belonging to the late Mr Taylor and his wife.  
It was a small granite building with roses climbing up the walls with the vivid scarlet flowers contrasting with the cold, sombre grey stone. A few houses were dotted nearby but the air was still and aside from a few birds singing cheerfully to one another it was silent.  
We followed Mrs Taylor through her hallway and into the room where her husband spent his final few moments.

The living room was larger than I expected with wallpaper covered in a floral design pasted on the walls. A huge fireplace was placed in the centre of the north facing wall with a china vase on the mantelpiece containing slightly withering daffodils. Their usually golden colour was muted due to age and lack of water. A couple of armchairs and a sofa were placed around the fire with a small wooden table between them all. The floor was a light brown oak with a cream rug over it. I noticed Holmes bent over a corner of the rug brandishing a magnifying glass. He seemed to be examining large brown stain that I could only assume was the brandy Mr Taylor had spilt when he collapsed and died.  
"I assume that there was no wound on your husband's body?" Sherlock inquired from the floor.  
"No, but he wasn't poisoned." the small woman beside me informed him. "No poison was found in the body."  
"How could that be? He had no wound from a weapon but there was no poison used?"  
"The police told me that the most likely cause of death was alcohol poisoning."  
"When you entered the room was the windows and door locked?" asked Sherlock as he stood up in order to examine the window above and inspect the catch that.  
"Of course and the windows can only be opened from the inside."  
"So your husband came home from the pub, locked the windows and door before sitting in front of the fire with a glass of brandy. Approximately half an hour later you awoke to the sound of your husband choking. You rushed downstairs, unlocked the door and ran to your husband's side. There was no one inside?" I questioned.  
"No, he was alone."  
"Then how did he die?"  
"That is why I need Mr Holmes." she admitted.  
Sherlock moved to investigate the fireplace. At first he was only scrutinising the front but suddenly he crawled forward to where the wood would have been and stuck his head up the chimney. I heard him cough once or twice and his face reappeared covered in a thin coating of soot. Holmes gave another glance around the room before swiftly departing with me following not far behind.  
"I think it is high time you and I visited the pub, John." he ordered striding confidently down the street.  
"Despite what the police believe, I am sure that Mr Taylor was poisoned." Holmes declared, "Notice the footprints going to the cottage in the mud." I studied the footprints of a man's boots in the dried mud.  
"I am certain that those are Mr Taylor's from the night that he met his terrible fate."  
"Surely it must've rained since Thursday?"  
"Luckily for us, the last time it rained was Thursday night and since then the weather has been unseasonably warm, so the mud has dried up preserving the impression made by his boot."  
"If this is his boot print how on earth does it prove that he was poisoned?"  
"I would've thought that would be obvious, even to someone of your intellect Watson!" Sherlock sighed exasperatedly.  
"The footprints are straight. These aren't the footprints of a drunken man, they are too evenly spaced apart and it looks as if he wasn't stumbling at all. It couldn't possibly have been alcohol poisoning because I doubt Mr Taylor had drunk much alcohol, if any. In fact, I believe that he never even entered the pub that faithful night." Sherlock grinned like a mad man and hurried forward down the street.  
"In fact, I believe that there is a young woman in the house atop that hill that is the key to the solution of this case."  
He pointed upwards at the minute house stood at the summit of a vast hill with yellow gorse cropping up aside the thin, winding country lane that snaked up to the peak of the mound.

* * *

Pink blossom fluttered down to the ground and left a thick blanket of petals beneath the gnarled, twisted branches of the cherry tree.  
"What evidence do you have connecting the inhabitants of this house to the death of Mr Taylor?" I queried as we finally reached the pinnacle of the tor.  
"I observed that the rather unmistakable blossom on that tree is the only one within walking distance of Mr Taylor's house. That particularly striking bloom happens to be the same as the ones I noticed crushed into the boot prints we saw earlier. Therefore it is only logical to assume that Mr Taylor had visited this particular house upon the night of his tragic death."  
"Perhaps a relative of his occupies this charming house?" I wondered aloud.  
"I believe that there is only one way to find out for certain." Sherlock grinned and rushed forward before hammering the golden knocker on the front enthusiastically. It had barely been a few seconds when a short woman threw the door open. She looked about thirty years of age with golden hair pulled tightly into a bun.  
"Good day sirs how may I be of assistance this fine day?" she questioned smiling widely.  
"We wish to talk to you about the late Charles Taylor," announced Sherlock.  
"I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea who you are talking about.," she lied smoothly.  
"Perhaps we can jog your memory."  
"I don't see the harm in trying," she nodded and stepped aside to allow us entrance.  
"Have you your revolver Watson?" Sherlock whispered as we entered her living room.  
"Of course."  
"Keep it handy. This woman is not all she appears to be," he ordered in a low voice. The woman positioned herself opposite us on a sofa parallel to ours.  
"Oh! Where are my manners? I have not yet introduced myself. I am Mr Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr John Watson."  
"My name is Miss Jane Wilson."  
"How long have you lived here Miss Wilson?" Sherlock was glancing around the room in a suspicious manner as he spoke.  
"Not long. Approximately six months."  
"And in that time you had no contact with Mr Taylor?"  
"I'm afraid I had none. I wasn't even aware of him till you two mentioned his name."  
"Well you have been most helpful but Dr Watson and I really should be leaving now. It has been lovely to meet you though. Come along John time is of the essence."  
He hastily rushed out of the room so fast I could barely keep up.  
"I confess I do not understand how that small woman is connected to Charles Taylor's death." I admitted to Sherlock as we descended down the hill.  
"Don't you see my good fellow that she is in fact at the centre of all this?"  
"I am afraid I cannot though it is evidently obvious to you."  
"Miss Wilson is a liar. When I asked her if she had heard of Mr Taylor prior to our meeting she claimed that she had not but, in a town as small as this surely if she hadn't encountered Mr Taylor before his death she must've known about his death."  
"So you're suggesting that she had indeed had known him?"  
"She didn't just know him John. He was having an affair with her," he informed me triumphantly.  
"By Jove! How could you possibly know that?"  
"For starters there was a pocket watch that was just visible underneath a newspaper beside her on the sofa. The casing bore the initials C.T which one can only assume stood for Charles Taylor. He must've left it the night he visited her for the last time. The second thing I observed made me sure that my idea was correct, her necklace."  
"Her necklace?"  
"Indeed, a necklace with a fine silver chain and a small ruby heart hanging from it. Far too expensive for a working class woman such as her to purchase. "  
"Perhaps it was a gift from a friend or family?"  
"Highly improbable," he disagreed, "No one's friends give them a heart shaped necklace. A heart is a romantic gesture therefore I doubt it was a gift from a friend. I must admit the thought that it was from a family member did cross my mind but that woman didn't seem to have any close family, at least none she was in contact with. So we are only left with the possibility she has a lover that presented her with it. I was certain she was Mr Taylor's mistress once she refused to admit she knew him. She wanted to have no possible way that she could be connected to him so she lied."  
"Remarkable old friend!" I praised.  
"I beg to differ. Those few observations and deductions were simple," he laughed. "The case is indeed beginning to wrap it's self up nicely."  
"I haven't the foggiest idea how you have come to that conclusion."  
"I thought as much. Come along Watson. I believe we have to speak to Mrs Taylor about her late husband's will in closer detail."

**A/N: Hey beautiful people, I hope you liked this chapter. As always if you have time drop me a review but if you don't I'll still love you for reading this xxx :D**


	4. Chapter 4

The short will of Charles Taylor was laid on the table I by an emotional Mrs Taylor. My friend began pouring over it as the woman who had brought it rushed out of the room with tears welling up in her eyes.  
"Ah!" gasped Holmes in triumph. "As I had suspected, Charles Taylor didn't only include his wife in his will. There are at least ten others who would benefit greatly if he were to pass away in mysterious circumstances."  
"One of which happens to be Mrs Wilson?" I added helpfully.  
"Indeed. What do you make of this name my good fellow?" He pointed to the last name on the list. It was written scruffily in the same black ink as the others. The name took up almost double the amount the others took despite being the shortest by far.  
"Well the writing certainly is not as neat as the previous names."  
"Congratulations my dear Watson. That is correct. Now what can you deduce from the frankly appalling state of this lettering?"  
"That the man's hands were shaking?"  
"Correct once again! I'm truly shocked how intuitive you have become John. Of course I have inferred far more from this small detail than you but for you it certainly is astounding."  
"Surely I haven't missed something important?"  
"On the contrary you have missed the most vital fact that we can infer from this writing. Mr Taylor was clearly drunk when he wrote this particular name."  
"Perhaps he was tricked into writing it then?"  
"Highly probable."  
"So perhaps it was this man that poisoned Charles Taylor?"  
"From the few letters that I can decipher I believe the man we have to investigate is a man by the name of Mr Phillip Stevenson."  
"Where do you suggest we begin our search?"  
"Of course the obvious starting place for our investigation is the local pub where Charles Taylor claimed to be drinking at." Sherlock rose to his feet and strode purposefully out into the cool night air to commence our hunt for the elusive man.

The darkened pub was shrouded in a thick, foul smelling cloud of tobacco smoke and the entire building reeked of strong alcohol. A few limp, shabbily dressed bodies were propped up against various tables with limbs strewn randomly. Seemingly oblivious to the writhing bodies hidden in the shadows Sherlock stormed toward the bartender.  
"What can I get you two good fellows this fine day?" inquired the grubby barkeep flashing us a toothless grin.  
"We aren't interested in purchasing any beverages today thank you but if you had any information concerning whereabouts of a man that goes by the name of Phillip Stevenson." Holmes informed him getting straight to the point swiftly.  
"I'm afraid Mr Stevenson is famously difficult to find. He has no relatives that anyone knows of and he tends to keep to himself. Unfortunately I can't even give you his address as no one knows it. I can tell you one thing though; Mr Stevenson is a renowned gambler and never misses a game of cards when he comes here." Sherlock groaned in annoyance and stormed out.  
"Thank you for your help sir." I nodded before hurriedly following after him.  
"S'cuse me sir but I couldn't help over hearin' your conversation. May I ask why you're lookin' for Mr Stevenson?" enquired a gruff voice from inside the shadows just beside the door. I turned slightly to see a bearded man sat nursing a pint of ale in his grubby hands. Mud caked his nails and his long beard was grey and in disarray.  
"My friend and I are investigating Mr Taylor's death."  
"Thought as much." he nodded slowly and took a long, slow sip of his drink, "My name's Arthur. Arthur Brooks. I was Mr Taylor's gardener til' he kicked the bucket so to speak."  
"I'm John Watson. I'm terribly sorry for your loss."  
"Not my loss Mr Watson. He was jus' another employer."  
"Surely you're upset that he has died?"  
"O' course! I'm not some heartless monster!"  
"Watson what is taking so long?" Holmes demanded as he burst back through the door.  
"My most sincere apologies sir. Your friend and I were jus' talkin' I didn't know I was keepin' 'im from important business." Mr Brooks told him truthfully.  
"It's perfectly alright. We should be going though." I nodded and started to leave the pub again when I was stopped once more by Mr Brooks.  
"Mr Watson! Make sure you and your friend find whoever murdered him and make 'em pay for what they did!"

"How curious... John what did you tell him about our investigation?" Holmes asked as we walked together through the dimly lit streets to the local B&B which I had booked for us to stay in.  
"You mean the man I was talking to? Nothing. I simply told him we were researching his death."  
"Interesting." he nodded thoughtfully. We didn't speak for the rest of the walk as I knew better than to disturb him when he was fitting all his observations and deductions together.

The next morning was unseasonably warm and I awoke with a thin layer of sweat covering my skin. I quickly changed before hurrying downstairs for breakfast.  
"Morning Dr Watson. I trust you slept well?" smiled the kindly owner of the B&B. Her black hair was swept up into a loose bun and she wore a pristine, white apron over her canary yellow dress.  
"I did sleep well thank you. I don't suppose my companion Mr Holmes is awake yet?"  
"I haven't seen him yet this morning. Would you like breakfast whilst you wait?"  
"No thank you. I shall take some tea though." I replied. She nodded slightly and left me in the large dining room. A handful of people were dotted on various tables around the room. I picked up a discarded newspaper and sat alone on a nearby table. I had read half an article when a large pair of scissors cut through the middle of it. I looked up to see Sherlock snipping away at my paper. Finally he had chopped a large rectangular shape from the front page. He stepped back with the clipping from the paper in his hand.  
"Whatever are you doing Holmes?" I demanded.  
"I need this particular segment of the local news to help us in the case." he informed me showing me that the piece of writing was on Charles Taylor's death.  
"Surely there is nothing in that paper that you don't already know?"  
"Don't be so sure John. Occasionally the press comes in handy."  
"So what is your plan for today?"  
"I believe we are still yet to meet Mr Stevenson so I propose we continue our hunt for him."  
"Of course but before we do how about a spot of breakfast?"

**A/N Hey beautiful people, as always please leave a comment even if it's just one word. Thanks for reading xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

Once we finished eating we wasted no time in departing for the pub we had visited the previous night. It was all but deserted in the morning and only a couple of drunkards remained. The bartender grinned when he heard us come in and beckoned us closer. Obligingly we went forwards and leaned close to him to hear him whisper to us,  
"You're in luck this morning sirs. Mr Stevenson appeared in here merely an hour after you two disappeared. He drank rather too much and I was forced to throw him out. Fortunately for you two he appeared on the doorstep the moment I opened up the pub demanding a pint of ale. He's sat over in that corner right now." he pointed at a dark figure sat with his legs propped up on the table casually.  
"Many thanks for your help." Sherlock grinned while speaking in a low voice. I noticed him casually slip some money into the bar tenders hand. We walked together into the shadowy corner and I copied Sherlock as he sat down opposite the man. I noticed he was smoking a pipe and a huge cloud of smoke appeared as he exhaled. I coughed a little as the smoke tickled my lungs but Sherlock seemed to enjoy the taste of it and inhaled it deeply.  
"Good morning gentlemen." he smiled widely as he played with his pipe.  
"Morning Mr Stevenson."  
"You must be the two men that Henry told me about. He said you two were looking for me."  
"Did he indeed? Well you were informed correctly. We wish to know your connection to the late Charles Taylor."  
"Charles Taylor? Why yes! I do know ol' Charlie! What do you mean the late Charles Taylor? He's dead?"  
"This is a small town. Surely you must've heard something about his death?" I frowned sceptically.  
"I don't tend to speak to many locals here." he shrugged.  
"I assumed as much. Now, when was the last time you spoke to Mr Taylor?"  
"Charlie and I spoke only last week. We are...were old friends." he corrected himself quickly.  
"So you spoke often?"  
"Yeah I suppose we met lots in here. We mostly drank together and played cards."  
"Thank you for your help Mr Stevenson."  
"Goodbye sirs." he smiled and took another long breath through his pipe.

Mrs Taylor was just leaving her house when we arrived.  
"Oh! Mr Holmes, Dr Watson to what do I owe this pleasure?" she asked as she slipped her gloves onto her hands.  
"We were just coming to inspect the will once again."  
"Certainly Mr Holmes. My maid is in and I believe that the will is where you left it on the dining room table. I shall be out till four because I'm having tea with Mr Brooks my gardener."  
"That will be perfectly fine. I'm sure we shan't be long." Sherlock nodded. Mrs Taylor smiled slightly and continued on her way down the street. Sherlock and I were let into the house by the maid and we sat around the dining room table with the will between us. Sherlock retrieved the newspaper cutting from his pocket. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips together in deep thought. I picked up the paper and examined it closely. I noticed Sherlock glance towards me and looked away again. Quickly he did a double take and leapt to his feet. His eyes were wide and animated.  
"Watson! There is no time to explain but we have to catch up with Mrs Taylor NOW! Bring your revolver!" he ordered and ran out of the room. I was left a little bemused but after a couple of seconds I managed to recover rational thought and raced after him. Sherlock was fast and athletic so he was already halfway down the street. My breathing was heavy and laboured within seconds but I forced myself to keep sprinting after him. The bright, blazing sun didn't help and simply made me sweat more profusely. Sherlock finally turned down a street and burst into a house. I followed after him with my revolver in my hand. I went crashing through the door while brandishing my gun. A shocked Mrs Taylor was sat on an armchair with a saucer in her hand. Beside her sat the bearded man I had met in the pub the day before. Tea dripped from his nose and saturated his facial hair with the scolding hot liquid. Sherlock was holding his revolver as well and pointing it at the gardener. Seeing the scene I quickly put the revolver away.  
"What are you doing Watson?" he demanded.  
"Putting my revolver away. I assumed you wanted us to run because there was danger to Mrs Taylor! All I can see is her having tea!"  
"Don't you see Watson? She was in danger?"  
"In danger from what? Mr Brook?"  
"Yes! Of course I'm talking about Mr Brook! He's the murderer!"

* * *

**Hey beautiful people, thanks for reading. Review if you want. DFTBA xxx**


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